


All Those Conversations Are The Secrets That I Keep

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Career Change, Decisions, M/M, Male Slash, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark is leaving F1. He begins saying his goodbyes to friends and colleagues, thinking of the future and of Fernando.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Those Conversations Are The Secrets That I Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and love to gemjam for pointing the way towards betas, and to whisper_roar for an amazingly quick beta job and wonderful encouragement :) The title is a lyric from the song 'Little Things' by One Direction.

 

 

Once Mark had made the decision, he called his parents, because his Mum would be so mad if she found out that she wasn't the first person he told, and she would definitely find out, because she was his Mum and she always managed to find out somehow. They'd always been the first people he told any big news anyway, now wasn't going to be any different. They didn't sound surprised, of course they weren't, Mark had been griping about Red Bull for over a year now. They were also clearly glad that he wasn't quitting F1 without plans for his future in place.

 

“So the adventure doesn't stop here,” his Mum commented, a smile in her voice.

 

Mark thought about the hours stretching out ahead of him, the completely different shape of endurance races, the teamwork and the trophies. The more things changed...

 

The next call he made was to Fernando.

 

*

 

Christian was ticked off that he wasn't told sooner, though he’d known about Mark’s displeasure with the way things were going for months now and he understood that parents and significant others were Mark's first priority. He was still pretty ticked though and he was spectacularly annoyed when Mark spilled the news to the media without running things by Red Bull first. Mark really didn't give that many fucks though – he was only Red Bull property for another few months and he was never one for holding things back.

 

Christian looked at him, his impressive desk a wedge between them, his expression resigned and frustrated, like a father dealing with a teenage son. Christian didn't know how easy he had it, Mark had mellowed with age. As a teenager, he'd raised a lot of hell; his hometown still had the scars to prove it.

 

Still, Christian was a great team principal and a good bloke, and adding work and stress to his already loaded shoulders hadn't been Mark's aim when he'd thought _fuck it_ on Australian television. So he looked a little apologetic when Christian sighed.

 

“I’ve talked to Helmut, he’s not happy about you blurting out your plans.”

 

Mark’s expression twisted, because what could he do? Of course Helmut wasn’t happy, he was never happy with Mark. Christian nodded at whatever he’d gleaned from Mark’s face.

 

“You should have waited. Anyway...”

 

Christian got up and extended his hand. There was more than a little bit of deja-vu in the air. Mark could clearly remember meeting Christian to talk about the possibility of working for Red Bull, he remembered how much he’d liked Christian’s straightforward manner and quiet but evident strength, he remembered thinking that this was a guy with a spine and that he didn't seem like a bullshitter. Mark had signed his first contract on that desk.

 

He stood and clasped Christian’s hand. There'd probably be larger celebrations later in the year, bigger more public more corporate goodbyes, and a chance to properly thank the massive factory-full of Red Bull employees who worked so tirelessly without much recognition. It was good to have a moment with Christian though. For all the crap that Mark felt like he'd waded through at Red Bull, he was still grateful to the guy. He’d always given it to Mark straight; he'd publicly praised Mark's input, just as he'd always been clear when Seb was their World Championship priority.

 

Mark cracked a smile as they parted. “Good luck with the kids.”

 

Christian raised his eyebrows, but he didn't disagree with the moniker.

 

*

 

Fernando understood. Of course he did, he often talked to Mark about life outside of F1, about what he hoped to achieve away from the track. His voice was still melancholy though. Mark could imagine his face, his expressive eyes saying everything, even if his beautiful mouth just smiled.

 

“Is good it's your choice,” Fernando commented.

 

Mark nodded, because even though Fernando couldn't see him, he'd know the movement was there. It was definitely better this way, no one wanted to be cut from a team and then discover that no other team was interested in signing them up. It happened to too many drivers. This was on Mark's own terms, even if those terms included the needling fact that he wasn't fast enough to consistently beat the younger drivers and that that wasn't going to change. It wasn't a challenge anymore; it had become more of a slog. He wanted a challenge, and he’d get that with Porsche.

 

Fernando understood.

 

*

 

Mark took Daniel out for a meal; there was a great place nearby where the steaks were close to perfect. Daniel was his usual smiling self, clearly looking forward to the upcoming races and easily keeping the conversation away from Mark's upcoming career change. He was a good guy, God, had Mark ever looked that young and carefree? The cameras had always loved Daniel and for very good reason.

 

“The press are gonna come after you pretty quick about my seat,” Mark commented. “You should get it.”

 

Daniel's smile turned a little shy and embarrassed, causing Mark to slant amused eyebrows at him, telling Daniel to pull the other one. Daniel might have been ridiculously humble but he also knew just how good he was, a fact that he didn’t trumpet, true, but Mark knew it because he knew Daniel and he knew Daniel’s privately-steely backbone and brimming confidence. His recent run with Toro Rosso was impressive; he'd placed a lot higher than he had last year in a number of races. Like the two Nicos this year and Sergio last year, he was showing how good the grid's young guns were. He deserved to get the Red Bull seat – he'd come through their system and had more than shone, showing how good he could be, just like Sebastian had done, not so long ago.

 

“Give him hell,” Mark said, like an afterthought. “He needs the scare.”

 

Daniel laughed and bought Mark another pint. He had a nice little public image going, people just saw the smile and the enthusiasm and didn’t really see the ambition that had to thrum under the skin of every Formula 1 driver who wanted to grasp success. Daniel had it in spades.

 

“I don’t know, Kimi wants the seat pretty bad,” Daniel voiced, slurping a sip from his own pint glass, eyebrows pulled down with worry, his sunny disposition clouded over for once.

 

Mark gave a quick shrug. “He’ll have to fight for it; can you see him letting Seb through?”

 

That set Daniel’s grin off again. It was true; Kimi always drove his own race. He might want to drive a Newey-designed car, but would he really want the frustration of that second seat?

 

Mark clinked his pint decisively against Daniel’s. “Here’s to it, mate.”

 

When Daniel was finally announced as Red Bull’s new driver signing, Mark texted him _Give him hell._

 

Daniel’s only reply was a smiley face, implacable, uninformative, perfectly polite. He’d be fine. Mark grinned.

 

*

 

“For sure, it is a shame,” Fernando said into the clutch of microphones that had been thrust in front of him as soon as he’d arrived at the track. “Mark is a great driver, you know, and a good friend. I will miss our battles out on track; it’s been good, for both of us and for the fans.”

 

What Fernando didn’t say was that he’d miss hanging out in Mark’s motorhome, the scratch of Mark’s stubble on his skin as the crowds jostled and shouted outside. He didn’t say that he’d miss the press of Mark’s arm to his as they waited for their respective mechanics to finish adjusting the cars during practice sessions, or the way that Mark’s clear-headed way of thinking and speaking often made Fernando both laugh and pause.

 

He didn't talk about how he’d miss the now-familiar and much desired taste of sweat on Mark’s skin, that he’d miss Mark’s clothes mixed up with his, that he’d miss using Mark’s toothbrush by mistake, that he’d miss early morning sex with the blinds drawn and the two of them sweating together, words murmured low, a thousand little gestures communicating more than words could ever adequately express.

 

He didn’t have to say any of it. Mark already knew.

 

*

 

Jenson teased him – _are you going to race on a mobility scooter?_ – but his hug was tight and his expression said that he knew exactly why Mark was leaving for pastures new. Mark hugged him back and told Jenson to watch out for the young bucks. The thing was, young as Jenson was, aside from Kimi, he was the old soul now, the one who’d have to find that extra second in order to sneak a podium. But Jenson would be fine, he had other interests too.

 

Kimi took Mark out for drinks; it was his response to most situations. They ended up sitting outside a bar, gazing out at the horizon with the slow-blinking expressions of the truly smashed.

 

“Is not easy, moving,” Kimi said, one hand gesturing eloquently.

 

Somewhere in Mark’s pickled brain rose the fact that Kimi had raced outside of Formula 1. Right, he’d done pretty well, hadn’t he? Before coming back. Mark wasn’t going to come back though, no way. He wasn’t Kimi.

 

“Is good though.”

 

Something like a smile crawled across Kimi’s face. He must be _really_ drunk. Mark laughed, at nothing, at everything. Kimi didn’t take offence. They stared out at the world together, in contented drunken silence.

 

*

 

Fernando’s head was resting on Mark’s thighs. They were both drinking cold beers; the television was chattering quietly, a football game of no importance filling the silence. One of Mark’s hands was buried in Fernando’s hair. The next race wasn’t for another week, they’d worked out in the morning, now they were enjoying some quiet time.

 

Mark was going to miss this. He was still going to visit the track of course, to see his mates and especially to see Fernando, to cheer him on, to grab him rough and tight after victories. And Fernando was going to visit him, to see him sweaty and deranged after an exhilarating and long run in a car, his limbs cramped and his mind screaming. But this – quiet time, aimless contented hours together, no agenda, no _quick we’ve only got an hour_ , just them, warm touches, and spare words – this, Mark wasn’t going to have in such abundance. So he was going to miss it.

 

Fernando pressed beer-chilled lips to Mark’s wrist, teeth and tongue saying a lot against warm skin. Mark shuddered out a breath, his heartbeat picking up just a little.

 

Fuck, he was going to miss Fernando.

 

Fernando settled a hand at the back of Mark’s neck and urged him down for some mouth-to-mouth communication. Mark smiled into the kiss, tasting fervour, then sadness and desperation. He paused, lips close, foreheads touching, Fernando’s breath warm and welcome on his face. It didn’t need to be said, did it? Only, maybe...maybe it should be said, maybe more often than it had been.

 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Fernando’s next breath was shaky – revealing a whole hidden world - but his lips were smiling as they pressed against Mark’s. Maybe they’d both needed to hear those words, because something was settling around Mark’s heart. Fernando wasn’t going anywhere either, at least not anywhere that Mark couldn’t go too.

 

Their jobs could be a bitch, and would be, frequently, and could comprehensively tear them apart, but this, fuck it, fuck the difficulty and the distances, this wasn’t going anywhere. No fucking way.

 

_-the end_


End file.
